


Damage

by BlackCheckerRed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Everything's un-beta'd, I don't own shit but I'm having a blast, M/M, Messed up brotherly obsession, Top Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCheckerRed/pseuds/BlackCheckerRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It pissed him off something fierce that the thought of his brother’s sweat infused skin, smoke scented  and accompanied by that thin lipped, prissy mouth could make an appearance, a shockingly intrusive ‘ta-da’ that was equal parts annoying and erotic.<br/>Dean really got irked about the fact that there was absolutely no reason for his obsession with his little brother, he attributed it to the fact that he’d been born with or developed some sort of messed up …perviness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damage

Dean hated the fact that his brother tasted perfect, he hated the fact that every single time he had his mouth on someone, Sam’s taste did a phantom appearance under his mouth, fucking with a taste that he’d been staring at and imagining for the better part of an evening.  
A woman’s neck, a woman’s skin, so pretty, so every sweet thing that girl flesh was the absolute opposite of what he knew of a man’s.  
Jesus, half its allure was that feminine flesh didn’t reek of salt and hardship, was comprised of something that was so goddamn strong and so meltingly perfect against his tongue that he could sometimes lose himself in it.  
Pissed him off something fierce that the thought of his brother’s sweat infused skin, smoke scented and accompanied by that thin lipped, prissy mouth could make an appearance, a shockingly intrusive ‘ta-da’ that was equal parts annoying and erotic.  
Dean really got irked about the fact that there was absolutely no reason for his obsession with his little brother, he attributed it to the fact that he’d been born with or developed some sort of messed up …perviness.  
He thought of Sam to god damn much, and it pissed him off that he couldn’t stop.  
Sure Sam was his responsibility, absolutely dad told him on a consistent basis ‘watch out for Sammy’ but it’s not like he didn’t charge Sam with a similar edict with the often muttered ‘Sammy, be good for your brother’.  
the boys had their jobs, their positions in their little family and it didn’t just function for them, it worked and worked well.  
It wasn’t like dad had reared them into some forced-quasi-normal intimacy, like they’d been so deprived that they’d been forced to sleep in beds together, hell, that shit had stopped when Dean was around twelve years old.  
Dad had even made certain that by the time Dean had reached his later teenage years that he always had his own room, circled with rock salt and bristling with weapons, sure, but its not as though he’d never had privacy or anything.  
It wasn’t dads fault that he noticed all the times his brothers legs just kept getting longer, or that when Sam got out of any sort of training that he lounged around half naked and completely unaware.  
Sam would invariably show up at the door to his room, arm casually hiked up and leaning against the door frame and his mouth whiningly asking if there was something to do, like Dean was his activities director on some fuckin’ cruise that the little shit had paid for.

And it wasn’t as though Sam walked around in some hormone induced fugue, all unrequited longing in his own teenage heart, for his big brother.  
Sam loved Dean and Dean loved Sam, ipso facto, no need to bring it up, it was a given, an unchangeable one.  
Being brothers made that a concrete, tactile thing in the world they dwelled in and they were both tactile creatures.  
Dean would occasionally think that it was because of that tactile, tangential thing that always had them touching, smacking a hand across a shoulder, bumping against each other’s frames when they walked until Sam reached sixteen and all that shit had come to an abrupt and sudden halt.  
Because Sam was a prickly, dissatisfied teen who jealously guarded his own personal dance space and even dad didn’t get hugs anymore, not even after a hunt.  
Yeah, Dean was pretty sure that being ousted from Sam’s personal space was the thing that had started his wandering, sex-soaked brain down dangerous and unwanted paths, in regard to his little brother.  
Dean wasn’t really surprised that Dad got cold shoulder Sammy, the kid needed the biggest, baddest thing around to rebel against and Dean knew, without a doubt, that their father, John Winchester was a personage-with-whom-one-did-not-fuck.  
But when Dean found the gate locked to his brother’s space and himself standing on the wrong side of the fence, well, that threw him. That surprised him, that hurt him.  
And Dean being Dean, had exactly two responses to emotional pain, he either absorbed it, owning and nurturing hurt as though its rightful place was residence in his own heart or flicked it off with a shrug of his shoulders because he had enough emotional baggage to haul around without adding to the load.  
Except…except…except this thing with Sam had gotten under his radar, Sam had emotionally sucker punched him and that pissed Dean off badly enough to want to dish some hurt right back.  
When Dean sparred with Sam he knew that he wasn’t pulling his punches the way he used to, he knew that he was better at hand to hand and he used that knowledge to physically punish his younger brother.  
From the slightly confused looks he got from Sam outside of sparring and training, it was obvious that Sam knew he was being punished as well, he just couldn’t figure out why.  
Sam kept shooting him these hurt looks that just pissed Dean off even more, Dean couldn’t believe the little fucker had the temerity to feel hurt after what he’d been doing to Dean.  
There was the stray, occasional thought that had a tendency to drift through the back of Dean’s mind that there was a possibility that maybe Sam didn’t know what was going on.

But, yeah, no, screw that, Dean was far to pissed to give a shit if Sam understood what he’d done to his big brother…or what Sam had initially done to Dean with the…not touching thing that Dean hadn’t wanted in the first place.  
Whatever, Dean didn’t have to argue…semantics and whatnot, as long as Sam got the message, which Dean was pretty sure that on some level, Sam got.  
Oddly enough, Sam sort of did, if the intensity with which Sam approached their next bout of sparring was any indication. Sam came at him cold and focused, husbanding his strength and energy, using his slightly longer reach to strategic advantage, landing several blows that had Dean stumbling back from the pain and reassessing his own hotly anger fueled need to get his hands on his brother.  
It pissed Dean off and instead of fighting smarter, he fought harder and Sam whipped his ass and barely broke a sweat. Dad, who’d been watching and assessing, never said a word outside of ‘good job, Sammy’ and then proceeded to give Dean the hairy eyeball.  
Sam was flushed enough with a win that he didn’t even rebuke his father for using the hated nickname.  
Dean shook it off, it wasn’t his first loss and ignoring his father’s eyes, he took the opportunity to slap his hand down on Sam’s shoulder, squeeze briefly in a gesture of congratulations, only he and Sam knew how Dean’s fingers bit into skin with a wordless promise of retribution.  
Dean got his chance three weeks later, dad had lit out of the town that he had ostensibly dumped them in, though he called it ‘letting the boys get settled a bit’ and would be gone for at least a month, give or take, if the Intel that Dean had gleaned from his father’s whispered phone conversation was anything to go by.  
Dean let Sam get comfortable, let Sam get into the groove of school and homework and finding the best place to cadge extra French fries with the emo kids after school, about a week or so before he made his move.  
Dean was a hunter and although Sam was as well, Dean was better at it.  
Sam always got caught up in the rush, the adrenaline, the excitement of the kill but Dean knew that being good at what they did meant patience, meant stalking prey, meant letting the target fool itself into thinking that all was well, that all was safe.  
So that’s what Dean did and he got so caught up in the strange dynamic of the game he was playing with his brother, so overwhelmed with the hypnotic tug and pull at the link between he and Sam, that when he finally acted, he was unable to pull himself back until it was too late, until he’d done irrevocable damage.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sam came into the house the way he usually did, no matter where they stayed, not so silent that he’d put Dean’s teeth on edge but not all that noisy either, too well trained to go crashing into any space obliviously.  
Dean held back in the narrow, unlit hallway, dusk settling long shadows to cloak his form. Sam came in through the kitchen, pausing in the doorway that led into the small living room.  
His book bag hit the floor and while his mouth was still forming words, Dean stepped out and said, softly “Hey Sammy”, with a small twist to his lips that was nowhere near a smile.  
Sam took in the second hand furniture that been pushed back into the far corners of the room and swept away from the large, faded square rug that was the only thing still in place, splayed in the center like the floor of a boxing ring.  
Sam just looked at his brother for a moment, instinctual caution, feeling slightly alien when directed at Dean, naturally coming to the fore, “What’s going on”?  
Sam’s words fell into the pool of disquiet, a quaver in his tone that he instantly tried to quash.  
Sam wasn’t unfamiliar with Dean springing the occasional brotherly trap or prank on him but this felt different, more solemn with an atmosphere of something that felt almost like danger, but Sam tried to shake that thought off, this was Dean, this was his older brother, his protector, the wall of human flesh that stood between Sam and both the supernatural and natural worlds.  
Even when Sam occasionally didn’t want him to.  
Lately though, Dean had been acting different, there was a heaviness to his gaze whenever his eyes rested on Sam, dad hadn’t noticed, which was a shock all in of itself, but Sam was well aware that Dean always turned his head away a fraction of a second to late when Sam tried to return his oddly intent stare.  
Like Dean was mocking him with his superior reflexes, like Dean was building up to something with his non-verbal taunting and his broad hands coming down on Sam’s flesh with the weight of some inexplicable emotion behind them.  
Sam had caught Dean staring dazedly at the marks on his flesh whenever Sam left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist on more than one occasion and just a few days before dad had left, Dean had caught him in the hallway one morning, stumbling towards the bathroom in-inherited- from- Dean- pajama pants.  
As they had passed each other, Dean had suddenly pushed Sam against the wall, not harshly, just enough force to have Sam blinking owlishly at him and had fitted one of his hands to the span of flesh between Sam’s ribs and his right hip, molding it to the Dean shaped hand- print he’d embedded in Sam’s skin during their last sparring session.  
Dean held him with a hand at his shoulder and his other hand brushing lightly back and forth in a goose bump inducing, barely there touch on Sam’s skin, muttered ‘fuck’ under his breath as his rich green gaze locked on the mark, trance like.  
Before Sam had been able to gather a response, Dean had stopped abruptly, moved casually away, muttering “Mornin’ kiddo” and moved into the kitchen with their dad to pour himself a coffee.  
Sam had stood for a moment, completely baffled before giving up, and, listening to the sounds of his father and his brother exchanging pleasantries, turned to the bathroom.  
Sam turned from his introspection as Dean shifted, the predatory nature of the movement clawing him back into the unease of the now.  
Dean was dressed in a pair of old gray sweat pants, the color so faded they were an indiscriminate shade of no color at all, he was shirtless and barefoot and the soft pad of footfalls as he crossed almost to the center of the carpet sounded overly loud in the room.  
Sam swallowed in a suddenly dry throat and watched Dean track the movement momentarily before his eyes flicked back to Sam’s face. Dean slid a smile over his features that looked so warm, so welcoming in its abashed bad boy charm, that Sam found himself for a fraction of an instant, wanting to respond, to smile back.  
Sam felt something lodge itself in the base of his spine and start a journey with cool, spider tipped claws to the knobby finial bone at his nape as he realized his instant recognition of Dean’s insincerity.  
Sam used sheer will to suppress his physical response and focus on the strange but true threat underlying Dean’s words and found himself flexing his fists and rolling his head slightly on his neck to loosen and prepare his muscles.  
Dean wasn’t fucking around with the whatever the hell it was he was playing at and Sam couldn’t stop himself from the ingrained preparation of his training.  
Sam took a step forward, wanting to meet his brother exactly wherever the fuck he was at and was surprised when Dean held up a hand in a ‘whoa, easy’ gesture and then got a little more pissed off because he responded to it by halting immediately.  
Dean’s voice retained its casual camaraderie, though his muscles stood out in sharp contrast against the natural pale of his skin, “ Easy, Sammy, I gotta match to win and all but you’re not exactly five for fightin’ here, are ya’?”  
It was an old jest, Sam didn’t think that Dean had ever actually heard the music of the band, he’d just really liked the name and used it both mercilessly and incorrectly whenever possible.  
Dean mocking him in some way that made him determined to level the playing field and Sam asked, redundantly “What the fuck, Dean?”  
Dean waved his hand in a laconic gesture at Sam’s length, “ Bit over dressed for this bout, aren’t ya?”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sam should’ve been more worried about the fact that he could see that Dean was hard, his sweats obscenely distended, but it wasn’t the first time that had happened, generally dad was around to stop their interactions, sending them off to different corners, but dad wasn’t here and Sam was damned if he was gonna back down when his big brother was this confrontational.  
Instead he found himself whipping off his hoodie, tearing his tee shirt off in the process and toe-ing off his boots, flinging them off into a corner of the kitchen behind him, making Dean grin, all crocodile sharp, when he had to flick his foot back and forth to lose his sock.  
Sam’s chest was heaving and he had to bring himself back down from the balls of his feet, when he realized he was bouncing, dancing a bit from the adrenaline crashing through his system, consciously unfurling his fists and flicking his hands out in readiness.  
Dean tried to swallow in a dry throat, Sam was responding fuckin’ beautifully, Sam had walked in and gotten instantly hard and little brother didn’t even realize it.  
Dean’d had to repress his own smirk, knowing that Sammy in a chubbed up state was an indication of how truly pissed and determined the younger man was, to fight and win.  
Dean felt a slight frisson because he knew that it was also an indication of Sam’s fear, Sam’s confusion, Dean deliberately didn’t think of the fact that the Winchester response to violence was an erection, an unconscious acknowledgement that they were all wired strangely.  
With only the slightest of verbal prompts the kid had started shedding his clothes and Dean was aware that his cock throbbed and leaked wetness into his sweats but he chalked it up to the excitement of the coming beat down he was going to visit on baby boy.  
Dean’s hands itched to mark his brother’s skin again.  
He watched as Sam stood before him, defiant and lacking even his jeans, stripped down to boxers and spreading his arms and doing the ‘hey lets fight dance’ that had Dean responding in kind.  
Both young men started circling each other, weighing possible weaknesses in the opponents’ defense, assessing the best opportunity for launching an offensive measure.  
Dean waited his brother out, knowing Sam would get restless, knowing Sam wouldn’t have the patience that he himself had and Dean was right as Sam bent in a swift and sudden crouch, trying to end things fast and hot by taking him out at the legs.  
Dean evaded him, easily enough that he couldn’t keep the laugh that burst past his toothsome smile and threw a stinging, open slap to the exposed skin of Sam’s back.  
A mocking taunt that left Dean’s hand ringing with a sweet ache and a blossoming mark of pain on Sam’s flesh that he spent too much time looking at because Sam caught him a hard right that he saw a fraction of a second to late. Dean averted his head, though Sam managed to nail him a resounding clip to the side of his jaw.  
Dean let the momentum of the hit pull him into a hundred eighty degree spin and then kicked, hard with his left leg, catching Sam in the chest and sending his little brother flying into the opposite wall.  
Sam executed a stumbling recovery that managed not to dent the dry wall and wouldn’t raise the eyebrows of the eldest Winchester if seen.  
Sam gave a wordless grunt that sounded like a shout in the quiet of the house, broken only by the sounds of flesh hitting against equally intractable flesh and two brothers harsh breathing as they fought for unfathomable reasons.  
Dean spat a bloody portion of fluid onto the ground between them and used his tongue to probe at the tender, loosened tooth in his mouth.  
He let Sam regain his feet, which the kid did with an admirable swiftness that had Dean reassessing his brother’s skills and bending at the waist as Sam made no move to approach him just yet, circling his defenses and shooting out lightning fast strikes that forced Dean into an offensive position.  
Dean was losing his patience and Sam was starting to fight with a cool head that was allowing him to figure out how to win and Dean didn’t want that.  
Dean wanted Sam on the ground, he wanted to feel his brother bucking up against him, wanted to feel that strong, lean stretch of frame that housed who Sam was, the person inside who thought that Sam only belonged to himself.  
Something clicked in Dean’s brain as Sam tried to use his superior reach to tuck one fore-arm under to protect his ribs and then snake in with a straight handed jab for his throat.  
Dean almost absently pulled himself into a reed bent kata, deflecting Sam’s strike and thinking that this was why they’d been fighting, off-kilter with each other and their father.  
Sam seemed to be under the mistaken impression that no part of himself was Dean’s property. Dean already knew that no matter Sam’s independence, there was a part of who his little brother was that had been bought and paid for with Dean’s flesh, Dean’s innocence and childhood.  
Sam seemed to think that Dean’s sacrifices gave him no claim, Sam seemed to think that Dean’s love was unconditional.  
Sam was wrong.  
Dean had conditions, a certain amount of ownership was one, it was pretty much the only one but it was non-negotiable.  
Dean was simply doing the never-ending task that should’ve been their fathers and that Dean had first inherited and then later, fought for.  
Sam didn’t know that he was fighting to keep Dean from…. Dean’s thoughts trailed off, weather it was his mind shying away from things he didn’t want to consciously think of or weather he just didn’t know, he wasn’t exactly certain.  
Dean stopped thinking and started paying closer attention because Sam had just gotten that good.  
Dean needed Sam down, now, and his little brother came at him, knees bent and fists up, almost crab walking and continually shifting his center of balance, leaving little to no opening in his line of defense so Dean did the next best thing.  
He straightened up and kicked Sam in the head.  
The flat of his foot, certainly, but enough to make his little brother’s eyes go fuzzy, absolutely.  
Sammy always did over think things, so busy with strategy that he didn’t see the obvious coming straight at him.  
Sam fell onto his side in a way that was almost comical but Dean was on him in an instant, giving an audible groan as he felt Sam’s form go pliant beneath his own stretched frame.  
Sam was starting to worry and sweat. Sam knew that Dean was better at this than he was, it was after all the whole point of making them spar, so Sam could get better.  
When Sam sparred with his father the agenda was clear, dad controlled Sam’s movements with precision, correcting him and occasionally calling a halt to re-adjust the boys stance or strike from varying angles.  
With Dean, whose job was ostensibly to make sure that Sam improved, was often disguised as a way of taking out his brotherly angst in as safe an arena as possible, Sam would invariably get a beat down that was Dean’s way of ensuring that he got his pound of flesh from whatever perceived injustice Sam had committed that week.  
This was different. This was scarier.  
Dean had him pinned so effectively that the most Sam could do was wriggle and strike out with a lanky arm that managed to escape Dean’s hold, to bash his brother in spots that were mostly hard bone and easily defended.  
The strangest thing of all was that Dean was doing nothing to hide his hard cock away from him, the way he usually did. Dean was pressing himself almost painfully into the softer muscle of his buttock, grinding it down, so that it had to have hurt for both of them.  
Sam finally stilled when Dean struck a fist, brutally, into the join of shoulder and arm, giving him a solid ‘ dead man’ numbness in his extremities.  
Sam ‘s head swam in a dizzy, motion swept sway, when Dean didn’t immediately get up off him and declare himself the winner.  
Sam thought he was still dizzy, his head still reeling when he felt Dean start to pull his boxers down, Sam was confused because his big brother started muttering, incomprehensible words that no matter how Sam tried to interpret them, made no sense.  
Dean fought to keep himself from crowing, Sam was pinned, sweetly pliant beneath him and he couldn’t keep himself from mashing little brother’s face, just a little, not enough to give him rug burn, into the carpet.  
Sam popped his head up enough to shout invectives into the air, promising Dean the most horrible of all deaths and impossible physical degradations.  
Sam froze when he felt, rather than heard the rustle of Dean’s sweat pants being slid down at the same moment that he felt an intrusive, dry finger pushed, unceremoniously, into the tight ring of muscle between his ass cheeks, not surging forward, just breaching lightly into the opening.  
Sam’s flesh, his frame locked down, involuntarily and it punched a sound out of Dean that sounded like misery rewarded with a thing wanted and feared.  
Sam cried out, the sensation so invasive and terrifying, though strangely not as painful as he would’ve imagined, that he couldn’t keep himself from shouting, almost crying his brothers name with a plea, “No please no, DEAN!” shouted, screamed into existence.  
Dean immediately withdrew and Sam felt Dean’s forehead drop down to connect with his shoulder blade and it sounded as though Dean was crying himself when he uttered, frantically, “ Sorry, sorry, sorry Sammy, so sorry, god, so sorry baby”.  
Dean started interspersing his apologies with lightly pressed kisses into the flesh of Sam’s back while simultaneously grinding his hips down into Sam involuntarily.  
Sam’s heart rate started to lessen its insistent hammering in the cage of his ribs and then gave a sudden erratic spike as Dean popped a finger from his mouth, garbling around phrases he didn’t seem to realize he was still speaking, and in between the kisses scattered across Sam’s back, reached his wet finger down to slowly circle Sam’s clenching hole.

It took Sam a strangely dizzy moment to realize that he was bucking up into Dean’s thrusts down into him and it was with an even stranger surrealism that Sam realized that not only were his boxers soaked through with the wetness from his own cock but that the carpet that Dean kept pressing him down into, also had a small pool of wetness that he kept squishing into.

 

Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself from sliding a hand down the back of Sam’s boxers and in pinning his brother had been unaware of what his hand was doing, only coming to the realization when the agonizingly perfect sensation of Sam’s muscles had clamped down on his finger, harshly enough to make Dean cry out.  
Dean’s head swam in a fog, all heated velvet and silver tinged need, it was only Sammy’s frantic tone that tore him away from the instinctual desire to mark Sam in some way, a way that he couldn’t hide or forget, a way that he would always have to carry with him.  
Dean wanted to own Sam, mark his little brother on the inside.  
Dean should’ve leapt up, drug himself away but he was already moving, hips and hands so outside his own control he gave a passing and brief thought of possession, before discarding it, completely.  
This was Dean. This was Sam.  
Dean pulled his finger away from the enticing throb that was Sam’s achingly sweet hole and sank it into his mouth, wetting it with saliva and immediately returning to his explorations with a gentler touch.  
Dean would later possess no actual memory of lifting his own blood heavy cock and slapping it against the flesh beneath him.  
Dean was rocking in the channel between Sam’s buttocks, right against the tightly furled hole that he couldn’t bring himself to breach, after his first inept invasion, though it was difficult with the way Sam kept bucking up into him.  
Dean’s hands had slipped down to encircle the younger mans hips and somehow Sam had managed to get one knee, slightly akimbo, beneath his own weight because he was arching and thrusting back into to Dean’s frame so that not burying the aching length of his cock into his little brother was an actual task.  
Sam’s pucker was slick with the pre-cum drooling out of the tip of Dean’s dick and the tight hole that had balked at his earlier, fumbling intrusion was now pulsing in the timed throb of Sam’s heartbeat.  
Dean’s hand slid down to Sam’s cock, needing to feel his brother’s length and groaned out loud when Sam surged forward into his fist and barked a harsh noise that might’ve been Dean’s name.  
Dean’s fist was coated with Sam’s pre-come and before his brain could register that it might be a bad idea, his mouth was latched onto the side of Sam’s neck, sucking and teething a visible mark into the unblemished skin.  
Sam cried out at the feel of his brother’s mouth, Dean claiming him with teeth and hands and cock and he couldn’t keep his young frame from rocking back onto the very tip of Dean’s drooling dick.  
Sam felt his hole being opened and the sensation was so delicious, so unexpectedly different from what had happened earlier, that he felt himself get so instantly greedy for the rest that he tried to push himself along his brother’s length.  
He was stopped by Dean’s hands on his waist and the sudden cessation of movement and sound as Dean pulled his mouth away from the side of his brother’s neck .  
“ No, Sammy, just like this, gonna mark you up with my cum, just like this”, Sam writhed, actually fuckin’ writhed beneath Dean, “ Gonna make you fuckin’ ache for my cock, little brother”.  
Dean gave the one slender hip encased in his hand a brutal shake as Sam tried to disobey while at the same time striping his younger brother’s cock in his calloused grip and that was it for Sam.  
Sam came so hard and so long that it took him a while to realize that Dean was holding him up off the floor. Dean’s arms were trembling with both effort and tension, muscles and tendons standing out in sharp, shaking relief as Sam clamped tight, involuntarily, around the very tip of his dick, over and over, literally milking the end of his cock, wringing with a pleasure/pain inducing rush again and again.  
Dean realized he was speaking aloud only after he had started to come down a bit, from his own mind-blowing endorphin high, entranced at the sight of his own milky release coating and dripping from Sam’s pink hole.  
Distantly, he heard himself muttering stupidly, “Mine, Sammy, Mine, fuck, fuck, mine, mine”, it took him a moment to recognize the sound of his own voice.  
Dean released his brother and Sam immediately fell to the floor, boneless.  
Dean did everything he could not to collapse on top of him and both boys gave an audible yet inarticulate sound as the tip of Dean’s cock was pulled abruptly from Sammy’s hole.  
Dean swayed above his brother for a moment, trying to gather the strength to push himself up, flop to the side, something for fuck’s sake instead of trapping the brother he’d just molested, in the cage of his arms.  
Dean fell down onto Sam’s prone frame, heavily enough that he was distantly surprised not hear an obligatory complaint from.  
They lay quietly, harsh pants of breath evening out, gaining the air but not the words.  
The high was definitely gone now, bloom torn off the incestuous gay rose and Dean couldn’t get his throat to work, couldn’t come up with anything remotely to say or do, frozen in place with the confused strength of ‘ Wrong, so fucking wrong’ and ‘Wanna do it again everyday forever’ when Sam spoke up beneath him.  
“Jesus, Dean this carpet was gross before I spooged all over it, lemme up, I get first shower” and Sam elbowed him, not hard just a brotherly ‘scoot over’ dig and Dean could move again, rolling off to the side and not watching Sam hitch his boxers back up.  
Dean looked down at himself, sweats still pushed down past his knees and thought idly that his cock looked absolutely wrecked before his field of vision was obscured by Sam’s abnormally large head.  
Sam looked down at him as the younger boy had gained his feet and Dean thought that Sam looked o.k., Sam looked good, Sam looked really fuckin’ good, cheeks all flushed and hair sticking out everywhere.  
Sam said, “I will use all the hot water for just myself unless you can manage fore-play like that in the tub” and then turned on his heel.  
Dean laid on the floor, come cooling on his impossibly stirring cock (which was actually sort of painful) at the thought of a wet Sammy, nonplussed and stupid before hitching his sweats up and springing to his feet, swift on Sam’s trail, his foot touched something damp but he hurried down the hallway, towards his brother, thinking idly that Sam was right, that carpet was really gross.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Epilogue:

Dean had Sam for almost two more years and during that time he was stupid happy, so in love that he managed to push the obvious signs of Sam’s discontent with the way they lived, aside.  
It helped Dean live in a space where the reality of their true existence never intruded, when Sam gave himself up to Dean with a hungered abandon that the world, that their father, never saw.  
Sam was just as greedy for the minutiae that comprised his big brother’s existence as Dean was as obsessed with the need to keep his little brother marked as his own personal property, even when the boys weren’t in each other’s immediate presence.  
When Sam left for college, Dean was pissed and hurt, sure, but even in the early days, Dean had known that it was temporary. Even in the dark, aching days of too much booze and indiscriminate sex, occasionally marked by Dean’s own fights with their father, Dean knew, fuckin’ knew, that Sam’s absence was painful but temporary.  
And Dean was right, spot on the money correct.  
What he hadn’t known, what he’d never expected or anticipated, what he’d been unable to imagine, was that Sam’s presence was not just desired but necessary, sort of ipso facto, for Dean, but that Sam needed Dean’s presence just as much, that Dean was as necessary to Sam.  
But not Dean’s touch.  
Sam never touched Dean again with the desperate, carnal need they’d possessed in their youth.  
Both men grasped tight to each other in moments of perceived loss, they held on with bruising grip when something tried to tear them from each other, but the few times when Dean felt his own need push him to make a tentative overture, he knew that Sam’s heart had moved past him.  
Sam never said ‘no’, Sam never pushed him away or rejected him, Sam tried to give Dean what was needed but while Dean was drawn in to Sam’s light, all moth and flame, Sam’s internal gaze was always off center, always just past Dean’s shoulder at some far off distant thing that tugged at both his gaze and his heart.  
So, Dean let his brother go, not far, not away, he never stopped wanting Sam or wanting to keep Sam on a shorter leash, he stayed close, stayed in love and learned to keep his hands to himself.  
Dean couldn’t see the things that Sam saw, because Dean already had everything he wanted and even if he didn’t get all of Sam, he got enough of him to learn how to be content with what he had.  
It wasn’t tragic enough to be sad and it wasn’t sad enough to be heartbreakingly funny.  
When Dean finally fell in love with the tragic comedy of celestial confusion that was a rebellious angel that had pulled him out of perdition, he was strangely grateful, welcoming the slighter transference of devouring emotion.  
Grateful when Castiel would pull away from the wetness of their entwined mouths and say to him, stern but with neither censure or personal hurt “ Stop thinking of Sam”.  
And for a little while, Dean would.


End file.
